


In a Blur

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Coming In Pants, Community: rounds_of_kink, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows how it looks. He’s not that naïve, and he knows how it looks, but it’s not actually like that. He wants to believe that appearances are deceptive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Blur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxriverinmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/gifts).



> Written in 2008 for Rounds of Kink IX.  
> Prompt and kink by Foxriverinmate: Even at sixteen Michael still lost control when his brother touched him that way.

He feels good. Dizzy and cozy in the best possible way.

Michael is drifting in this blurry moment between sleep and consciousness, aware he’s not dreaming anymore, but not awake enough so reality sinks in. He can’t remember how he got here, wherever ‘here’ is, but he feels good. Good and exhausted and safe. He doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t try to figure it out. Too soon. There is warmth, half light, a soft buzz and a comforting touch on his back. His world is reduced to these few sensations and, for a couple of minutes, he just basks in it, still and barely breathing, cautious not to break the perfect balance, the perfect feeling. Yet, despite his best efforts, the nice haze surrounding him gradually tears up and brings him back to here and now.

First things first. The touch on his back is Lincoln’s, he would recognize his brother’s hand among thousand. It’s hot, rough, and large between his shoulder blades. Almost as hot as own feverish skin, rough in a pleasantly callused way, and large enough to cover a fair expanse of his upper back. A middle finger rests right on the vertebra at the base of his neck, Lincoln alternatively drumming and drawing small circles on his skin. The drumming seems to reverberate through his whole body in synch with his heartbeat; the small circles are soothing.

It takes Lincoln halting his ministrations to make Michael react; he lets out a small groan of protestation and Lincoln is helpfully back to drumming and rubbing. Even better, one after another, all his fingers are put into gear. Michael groans again, this time around in approval.

“You’re awake,” Linc says. It’s not really a question but not quite a statement either. By way of answer, Michael shifts his left shoulder under his brother’s hand, an imitation of a shrug to let Linc know that he’s indeed awake and heard him. When he moves, something, a woolen blanket probably, scrapes the skin of his arm.

He’s not wearing a shirt. Reality slowly catches up with him, and he realizes that he’s not wearing a shirt. No shoes either. His jeans are still on, the belt buckle pressing into his stomach. He vaguely remembers Lincoln ordering him to take off the damn shoes if he wanted to get into bed with him; for some reason, his brain didn’t compute the instruction, he didn’t get it right and shrugged off his shirt instead. With a sigh, Lincoln bent and quickly removed his sneakers, then allowed him under the cover. It was warm and smelt like Lincoln under it, and Lincoln barely grumbled before he let him snuggle up. An ideal shelter.

He cautiously peeks from under the blanket. Except for the faint, moving light coming from the TV, the room is dark; he can’t decide whether it’s because the night is here already, or just because the sky outside is clogged with grey and black clouds. It could be three in the morning or three in the afternoon, no way for him to tell. The bed they’re lying in is neither Lincoln’s nor his, it’s the pull-out couch in the small living-room. Linc settled here because it’s the warmest room in their apartment. Michael sneaked in after he had a bad day, or a nightmare, or a fever or saw things that weren’t here for anyone but him – real but invisible for most people, overwhelming and maddening for him. The cause doesn’t matter, the medicine has always been the same since he was a kid: Lincoln’s touch. Drum, rub, stroke and graze. Beat the panic, take away the anxiety, ease the muscles and soothe the fears, irrational or not.

He breathes in deeply, slowly, stretches his arms and legs as a cat would, and rolls his spine. Requests Lincoln to, “Scratch, please?” in a mumble, and Lincoln complies with a chuckle. He’s a tease, his brother, he starts with merely sliding his hand up and down, up and down, palm flat on Michael’s back. It’s only when Michael tries to lean into the touch that the long strokes turn into rubbing and then finally, the short, square nails scrape his skin. At first, it’s barely a brush, they lightly sweep over him, but little by little, they become more forceful. He can easily picture the pink and white rivulets Linc’s nails draw on his skin; he buries his face into his pillow. It’s all he can do not to moan and beg Lincoln to scratch harder. He knows better now – to be precise, since he incidentally displayed this kind of marks and a girl at the swimming pool asked him if he’d fought with a gigantic cat and lost.

It’s good, though, and the restraint he imposes himself makes it even better. Something to do with anticipation, he guesses. It’s the moment where it’s not about calming him down anymore. It’s the aftermath, the reward, it always has been, even when he was a kid. Back then, he would lie on his belly, rest his cheek on his folded hands and ask Linc to scratch his back. Lincoln might protest, but in the end, he surrendered. Even now, Michael can still remember almost grinning in satisfaction as he lay perfectly still.

Thing is, at some point, the feeling of relaxation morphed into something else entirely. When he hit adolescence, Lincoln’s rub-and-stroke soothing sessions started to leave him deliciously tensed, muscles straining and blood pulsing. Heat pooled in his lap just like when he had _those_ dreams, which was quite disconcerting. More than once, he had to grumble a hasty excuse and make a beeline for the bathroom – when he was lucky, he reached it: the other times, he just couldn’t hold back. It got quite messy then, although Lincoln probably never noticed; Michael took care of the laundry in those circumstances.

He had a couple of years to pull himself together, try to understand where his reactions came from and subjugate them. It has changed nothing: even at sixteen, he still loses control when his brother touches him that way. Only Lincoln. Only Lincoln can make him feel like that, utterly relaxed and, at the same time, about to burst out of his skin, as if his body was suddenly too small to contain the physical and mental elation. It always, always starts where Linc’s hand is touching him, the muscles of his back almost shaking with painful pleasure, and spreads until it constricts his chest and his stomach. He has to press himself down, against the floor or the mattress or wherever he's lying when it happens, and grind his teeth to keep from inappropriately voicing his appreciation.

He knows how it looks. He’s not that naïve, and he knows how it looks, but it’s not actually like that. He wants to believe that appearances are deceptive.

He dreamt once that Lincoln was kissing him, really kissing him. His brother nipped his lips, tongued into his mouth and left him aching for more – Michael never ventured to try to define that ‘more’. That night, he woke up covered in sweat and agonizingly aroused. He acknowledged the situation for what it was and his stomach clenched in a very unpleasant way at the thought of what was going on. He felt the bitter taste of bile in his mouth when, after realizing it wouldn’t go away on its own, he locked the bathroom door and slipped his hand into his pajamas, closed his eyes and brought up the dreamy sensations of Lincoln’s lips on his own.

But this, Lincoln’s hand on his back, it’s not sexual. It’s not. It would be sick and twisted. Wrong. It’s just his body needing an outlet and unable to find something else.

He will admit that when it happens, he can’t quite tell his fantasies from the reality. Right now, he doesn’t know if _something_ warm and firm is lightly pushing into his thigh or if he’s imagining it. He doesn’t know if Lincoln planting a hot, wet, open mouth kiss between his shoulder blades is for real, or if it’s just the dampness of his skin that he feels. It has to be his imagination. No way Lincoln would react in such a way, do such things.

Lincoln is all but kneading now, massaging his shoulders, sides and lower back, not as forcefully as he would be able to, but enough to make Michael squirm because the pleasure is mixing with a dash of pain. Or maybe because the pleasure is so intense that it is bordering on pain.

He’s hard. Truth be told, he’s been for a while but it’s becoming impossible to ignore. He burrows his head deeper into the pillow, his cheeks red because of his embarrassment as well as the surrounding, agreeable heat. He flattens against the mattress but doesn’t allow himself to grind into it because it would look too much like something he doesn’t want it to be, something it can’t be. Through a thick red fog, he can hear Lincoln teasing him, telling him he’s like a little animal that enjoy to be petted, and asking him if he’s going to purr anytime soon. Then, he lays one of his hands on the small of Michael’s back, the edge of his palm brushing the waistband of the pants that run low on his hips; it’s Michael’s downfall, that intimate touch, the rough fingertips slipping on his skin. The accumulated tension is suddenly released in waves of shakes and shivers. He spills out in long, lazy spurts, his climax sharpened by his self-imposed stillness and the thought of Lincoln watching him, watching over him, his guilt eased by the feeling of ecstasy and fullness.

The thin fabric of his boxers is clammy against the sensitive skin of his crotch, the jeans scratching him through it. He knows he can’t stay like that. Apart from the obvious discomfort, Lincoln might very well notice something in the end. So, as soon as his breathing has calmed down, he rolls over himself, drags the cover with him and around his shoulders, and wraps it around him as if he was still cold. It’s not entirely false right now by the way. Lincoln swears because of the sudden chillness but doesn’t try to get the blanket back. He stretches his arms and legs and sprawls all over the couch, invading the vacant space Michael has just left.

“I need a shower,” Michael tells him. It’s not a lie, and it would be true even he hadn’t come in his pants. He’s sticky and sweaty from whatever fever he ran or nightmare he had. That Linc doesn’t mind it any more and lets him cuddle always astonishes him a bit, but it’s not like his brother is especially delicate or fussy about those things.

In the safety of the bathroom, as he carefully pushes down his pants and peels off his boxers, he ponders how Lincoln doesn’t notice the kind of effect he has on him. No way he knows. He wouldn’t let it happen if he knew. Not to mention that Michael would die of mortification. It’s a wonder that Linc never noticed anything, but on the other hand, how could he imagine _that_? And there are none so blind as will not see anyway.

He sneaks under the shower and lets the warm spray wash away the evidence of what happened just a few minutes ago. Not all of it, though. The light scratches that Lincoln drew on his back tingle under the water, and he knows that they’ll keep on tingling for a while. They always do.

It feels good.

-End-


End file.
